


I'll shut down the city lights

by chailover



Series: the smoke that roams looking for a home will drift [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: BAMF Avengers, BAMF Bucky Barnes, Gen, Protective Bucky Barnes, Protective Steve Rogers, Team as Family
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-02
Updated: 2014-09-02
Packaged: 2018-02-15 19:51:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,902
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2241339
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chailover/pseuds/chailover
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bucky Barnes, the Winter Soldier, the Asset...it didn't matter the incarnation, the mission was still the same: Save Steve Rogers' troublesome ass.</p><p>For <a href="http://http://avengerkink.livejournal.com/">avengerkink</a>.<br/>Originally prompted <a href="http://avengerkink.livejournal.com/19023.html?thread=43590991#t43590991">here</a>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Я погашу городские огни](https://archiveofourown.org/works/7028722) by [BlueSunrise](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlueSunrise/pseuds/BlueSunrise)



> I had a lot of fun and also a lot of agony writing this: the prompted part was actually fairly simple and specific enough that it inspired me to write, but for some reason I needed a wrap at the end and that turned out to be impossible. Apologies beforehand for the dropped theme threads and confusion, Bucky's brains continue to be scrambled.
> 
> I have no beta, so any mistake is mine and will be gladly corrected if pointed out.
> 
> *Update 5/30/16*: [ BlueSunrise](http://archiveofourown.org/users/BlueSunrise/pseuds/BlueSunrise) translated this into Russian [here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7028722/chapters/15993463)! Yay!

***

The gap between what he thought he knew and what he actually did know was most likely as wide as the abyss that he didn’t remember falling into, but he did know this:

It was better to be up high and see the battle through a sniper’s scope, but there was something about the immediacy of being on the ground level, something familiar and real, that made him abandon his lookout this time. He didn’t really try to fool himself into thinking that part of that sense of reality wasn’t because Steve was always in the thick of it, but some part of him knew that if Steve was down there, then he should be as well.

And anyway, Steve’s new team already had a sniper, and an excellent one at that. He didn’t need to jockey with Hawkeye for the best perch and shots—he might not be friends with the Avengers but he knew better than to make enemies of them.

It was better here, moving and shooting and seeing the battle ground through eyes that were the Soldier’s, and not, at the same time. The Soldier didn’t think or feel past the cool assessment of the ever-changing field and its assortment of enemy and allied—okay, not allied, but at least not actively hostile—combatants. And it’s there now, at the edge of his awareness, helping him cut through the chaff, instinctively leading him to his objective.

\--

There were hazards of getting in the middle of an Avengers battle, and this was one of them:

A giant of a man, dressed in green suit and wielding a huge ball on a chain, was charging toward him with a roar. The ground shook under the pounding and there was no appreciable cover in the destroyed street. The part of him that was the Soldier coolly calculated the caliber and stopping power of the weapons he had on him and provided enemy designation while James Buchanan Barnes thought, _a guy with a magic ball and chain, seriously?_

“Bucky!” And out of nowhere, Captain America leapt into the fray, patriotically themed everything barreling into Thunderball’s path, coming onto his feet from a roll and planting himself with a wide stance in the giant's way, shield at the ready.

 _Unstoppable force and immoveable object_ , the Soldier thought. _And he’s in the way of my shot._

 _Goddamned shit for brains idiot!_ Bucky added.

There might’ve been a chorus of alarmed/dismayed exclamations from the rest of the Avengers as well. Bucky was somewhat gratified to realize that he wasn’t the only one who thought Steve was being a dumbass.

Even as the Soldier spared a thought of shooting through Steve, Bucky reached out with his metal hand – Some part of him had anticipated that the Kevlar would be smooth and hard to grip— and grabbed Captain America by the scruff of his neck, yanking them both out of the way as hard as he could.

Which was pretty hard, damn Zola to hell forever, and it basically sent Steve flying, ass over teakettle as Thunderball barreled by like a bullet train. Bucky pulled the gun he had meant to use before Steve had butted into the picture, spun with the momentum of the pull, and fired the entire clip into Ball-and-Chain’s back.

He had meant to shoot once at the back of Thunderball’s head. Neat, precise, no wasted ammo. Some obscure, incoherent and half-formed thought made him pull on the trigger repeatedly.

(It made no sense because this Steve was not tiny and frail, for all that he would not stay down, would not stop putting himself between danger and the thing or person he was trying to protect, but it’s wrong because Bucky was supposed to do the protecting.)

The bullets didn’t seem to do anything except make Ball-and-Chain madder, but it quickly became a moot point because another green giant dropped in and Bucky decided to leave Thunderball and the Hulk to their pow-wow.

Steve was getting to his feet. Bucky wasn’t sure what he was feeling, but all the noises seem louder and his blood was pounding and he was pretty sure that he wanted to punch Steve in the face. Steve was looking at him, blue eyes wide and hopeful under the cowl, stumbling toward him without any of the grace and power that Captain America was famous for. “Bucky?”

He was going to punch Steve in the face. He was going to use his metal arm and punch Steve in his stupid, stupid face. But his body betrayed him and instead of what would have been a very satisfactory meeting between fist and nose, his flesh hand reached out and grabbed Steve right at the join of neck and shoulder. Steve’s hand came up over his, startled but still gentle, and he didn’t know the words were coming until he already said them, shaking Steve probably hard enough to make his teeth rattle. “Do that again, and I will shoot you myself, swear to god!”

“Amen,” Someone said, amusement audible even though the tinny, mechanical filter. Bucky released Steve and the Soldier assessed Iron Man as he landed with a clang. “Battle’s pretty much done, guys. Knew it was a great idea to invite you to the club, Bucky-boy, I keep saying we need a Cap wrangler.”

“Shut up, Stark,” Steve and Bucky said at the same time.

Tony held up his hands and muttered, “Some things never change.”

\--

He thought about it, after. Thought about the Soldier’s calm assessment of his odds, of not planning to move in the face of Thunderball’s charge. Thought about his own actions after Steve leapt in, and the strange, inexplicable rage.

He had to admit, in the privacy of his not-so-intact mind, that he might be even crazier than he originally thought.

**

When faced with the prospect of dying, most people see their lives flash before their eyes.

The Soldier didn’t see anything before death, because you had to care about living in order to care about dying, and he didn’t really care about anything but the mission.

Bucky Barnes apparently didn’t either, because he did not have time for this bullshit.

Through the comms, he heard Stark and Natasha swear almost in unison when they realized the same thing that Bucky did, while Barton yelled, “Where’s Cap?! The Hulk just knocked out a support beam, the building’s gonna go any minute now!”

“There are still people in here!” Steve’s voice came through bursts of static, because reception just happened to be crappy in a burning, collapsing building – the same burning, collapsing building that Steve was in.

 _I am going to shoot him_ , Bucky told himself, his feet already moving on their own. _I am going to shoot him in the face, what the fuck._

“Get your butt back out here, Cap – wait, Barnes, what the hell are you doing?!”

He was vaguely aware that Stark tried to chase them, but there was a loud crash as soon as Bucky cleared the entryway. He couldn’t spare a backward look but he was pretty sure that was about all of the front of the first floor and half of the second that came down, he just hoped that Stark wasn’t under all that.

The ground was trembling under his feet and it was raining ceiling debris, some pieces large enough that the super-soldier serum wouldn’t make much of a difference if they hit. Bucky dodged what he could and threw himself forward, because he had to find Steve. Because Steve was an idiot and Bucky would not allow him to die via stupidity.

His comms came to life with a crackle, “—Barnes, he’s coming down from the fifth floor, Wilson just airlifted the last of the civilians out the window, but he won’t be able to make it back in time for Cap.” Stark’s voice was harried, but a part of Bucky that wasn’t busy dodging falling cement was glad that at least Iron Man made it out without being crushed. “JARVIS estimates less than a minute until the place goes, find yourself a nice structurally sound corner and hole up.”

He was probably going to die in the stairwell, but at least the partial collapse put him on floor three without much fuss. He hit floor four just as the steps crumbled beneath him and he managed to jump up and catch the railing to haul himself up halfway to floor five.

“Steve!” He yelled, slamming through the stairway door. Immediately he was hit with a face full of thick, gray smoke. The fire was still burning sluggishly up here, and in the split second after he inhaled and right before he choked on it, he heard a faint, far off sound.

His own lungs seized and started expelling the smoke violently, but he groped blindly toward that disturbingly, terrifyingly familiar sound. And when he caught sight of Captain America, for a second he saw a tiny, fragile shadow in his place.

And before he knew it, before he could even think, he threw himself forward and over the hunched, blue-clad figure.

 

Then the sky came down.

\--

Steve was okay, somehow. Battered and concussed, breathed in enough smoke to irritate his throat and lungs, but nothing he couldn’t bounce back from in a day or two. It was still a bit awe inspiring - what would've killed Steve pre-serum was nothing more than a minor inconvenience now. Bucky read the screens twice to confirm, checked the oxygen cannula and maybe brushed a bit of hair off Steve’s forehead, and then snuck out of the Medical wing the first chance he got.

\--

His plan to avoid Steve for a while lined up neatly with his next to-do: get Tony Stark to fix his arm.

“Hey there, Bandit,” Tony muttered absentmindedly as JARVIS opened the workshop doors to admit Bucky. The genius did a comical double-take when he seemed to realize that he wasn't hallucinating the ex-Hydra assassin in his workshop. “Wait a sec, shouldn’t you be in Medical?”

“Arm’s broken,” Bucky answered, flexing the metal one in question. The plates shifted sluggishly and it made a loud grinding noise. “Can’t get it fixed there.”

“Uh-huh,” Tony flicked away some holograms to clear the workbench. “Pretty sure they told me I’d have to wait for the rest of you to heal before they’d let me at the arm.”

“And you’re usually such a stickler for rules.” Bucky replied. When Tony sent him a skeptical look, he shrugged. “Nothing's broken but the arm and head – you can help me with the former and the latter is beyond help.”

“I’ll say,” Tony muttered. “Sit your ass down, then, and let me take a look. Maybe at both.”

“Just the arm.” Bucky warned.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah.” Tony nattered. “Shirt off, arm out. Remember, no stabbing, strangling or punching allowed on the premises. Workshop rules.”

The workbench was as large as a full dining room table and Tony kicked one of the rolling stools toward him when he came closer. It was nothing like the Chair from before, so there was only the faintest twinge of unease. He pulled off his hoodie, having had the foresight to wear a tank top underneath that, and sat down.

Tony whistled, eyes on the non-metallic parts of him. “Lovely art project, very…purple. And green. Should they be green? The building only dropped on you like, yesterday. This morning. A few hours ago?”

Tony was working even as he was rambling, so Bucky didn’t mind it much. They got his arm situated and all the tools laid out, and the billionaire genius immediately started opening panels, poking and prodding into the wiring. The faintest smell of burnt metal tickled his nose, but that smell never bothered him nearly as much as the antiseptic. 

Bucky shrugged the shoulder that wasn't attached to the arm being fixed. "It'll be fine in another day or two."

"Doesn't it hurt?"

He raised an eyebrow - Tony was wearing a shirt with a hole cut out where the arc reactor used to rest in the center of his chest. Even from a few feet away, the mess of scar tissue was visible. Bucky gave it a pointed glance. "Did that hurt?"

Tony snorted. "Right, on a scale of gunshot wounds to major surgery without anesthesia, I guess being beaten black and blue would be a zero for you. Boy, it sucks that I know exactly how that works." He used a mini-screwdriver to depress some ports inside the arm, and it whirred slightly before quieting. "Still, let me know if anything hurts, because I'm not actually a sadist."

"Hm."

There was silence - even mostly comfortable - for a few minutes, before Tony's mouth started up again. "I gotta ask though, is Cap rubbing off on you? Why'd you run into a collapsing, burning building?"

Bucky stared. The sheer hypocrisy of that question astounded him out of words for a second. "You're not the one with memory problems here, pal, and even I remember that you were running in _right behind me_."

"I was wearing high tech armor." Tony protested in his defense. "And Steve was being an idiot, but he did have his shield and the serum going for him."

In retrospect, he supposed that Tony had a point. As far as mission objectives went, going into a burning building wasn't high on the reasonableness scale. He wasn't even certain that he could really explain it to himself. “When you spar with Barton, you know how sometimes, you don’t actually throw fists?”

“Sometimes I kick or try to grapple,” Tony replied, frowning a little, though whether that was at Bucky or Bucky’s damaged arm, he couldn’t tell.

“No, it usually looks like a really ineffective palm-strike,” Bucky answered, watching what looked like a very thin and long screwdriver move around delicately amongst the blue-lined circuits under the plates of his wrist. “But you weren’t trying a palm strike, were you?”

Tony didn’t answer for a long minute, hands never stilling as he did something on the inside of his arm that jolted Bucky for a second before all the connections seemed to reset and reconnect. Then he sat back and set down the tools while Bucky flexed his fingers to check for dexterity. “That's the motion for firing my repulsors. I make it out of habit.”

“Yeah. It’s the same thing.” He rotated his wrist and the cybernetics responded smoothly, as good as new. He wished he could say the same thing for the rest of him, but the knockoff super serum didn't come with instant healing or invincibility.

"Habit," Tony repeated incredulously. "Jumping in the fire to save Rogers' bacon is habit?"

Bucky thought about it for a second and shrugged again. His eyes had seen and his body had moved, quicker than even thought. "Hydra was big on wiping everything, but they usually leave muscle memory alone." That was about as adept as an explanation as any, even though Tony looked dissatisfied. "I never said it was a good reason."

"Unbelievable," Tony snorted. "Fine then, okay," he started throwing the various tools back into their boxes and drawers. "Scram, you. Steve's going to come looking for you the minute he wakes up, and I don't need the lecture."

**

 

He stared.

The man lying at his feet was the mission. He was sure of that, it was clear as crystal.

But when he tried to pull up the actual objectives, what he was supposed to do with the man...he didn't know what the mission was.

(No, there were two voices in his head, echoing and overlapping and _confusing_ as hell. 'Two targets, level six. I want confirmed death in ten hours.' mashed together with 'the little guy from Brooklyn who was too dumb not to run away from a fight, I'm following him'.)

The Soldier pushed himself up on one elbow - he and the mission were on the ground, covered in dust and bruises. The room they were in was mostly wrecked, concrete and rebar and sparking electronics littering the ground. It looked like it might have been a command center for bunker, at some point.

The mission was wearing eye-catching red, white and blue. There was a round metal disc painted the same color scheme - primary offensive and defensive weapon, impenetrable by almost all known ordinance. He didn't remember learning those facts, but it was there in his mind anyway.

The other man was still unconscious, bleeding sluggishly from a cut on his forehead - minor, probably already healing. The Soldier got to his feet to perform a more thorough check and suppressed a wince - his own injuries were not severe enough to compromise the mission, but it was not optimal.

This entire situation was not optimal – he had no concrete information, no clear mission objectives, only this man and this destroyed room and the vague sense that he needed to do something, and soon.

Fine, then.

In the absence of specific mission objectives, he fell back to the basics – he wasn’t sure if his mission was to kill the man or keep him alive, but living is transient and death was forever, so he should probably keep the man alive for now. If it does turn out that the mission was confirmed death in ten hours, he can wrap it up then.

The man seemed to be suffering from nothing worse than a hard knock to the head, judging from the large bump on his skull. The diagnosis didn’t take long, so he turned his attention to their current location, which was not ideal. Over the occasional rumble or clatter of settling debris, the crackle of sparks here or there, he could hear other explosions, gunfire, and shouting. Not close enough to be worrisome, but only for now.

So, objectives: in the short term, get himself and the mission to a secure, defensible location. Medical attention also would not be amiss. He doubted the man would confirm that the Asset’s objective was to kill him even if he woke up, but consciousness would be preferable for the greater mobility and chance for additional intelligence.

He checked his weapons and the destroyed room – the door led out to a large hallway, with concrete walls and floors, and red flashing emergency lights along the side with flickering florescent lights on top. There was a large freight elevator at one end, and the entire hall was still clear for now. The collapsed walls of the room they were in seemed to only lead to other rooms or server banks, and he had the sense that they were underground.

The shield conveniently attached to the man via the harness/straps/magnets, so he stuck the disc to the man’s back and then hoisted him up in a fireman’s carry. The elevator display at the end of the hall showed ‘No Service’, which wasn’t a surprise due to the explosions he could still hear going off distantly. A bit encouragement from his metal arm opened the double-doors and he carefully peered into the shaft.

The actual elevator car was far below them, completely powered off, and from where they were, it didn’t seem to be more than a few floors to the top. He shrugged to himself, careful to not jostle the mission – there was some truth in the saying that no one ever looked up.

It took some juggling and creative use of the various straps on both of their combat uniforms, but he quickly secured the mission so that he was in no danger of falling. The asset tested his grip on the elevator cables, making sure that he would be able to climb with their combined weight, and stepped into the shaft. It was only the work of seconds to close the doors behind him.

\--

He met no appreciable resistance until they were nearly out of the base – the strange men (?) dressed in the full-body suits of lurid yellow didn’t count, their organization was terrible and their aim even worse. He was able to pick all of them off just from the racket they made approaching.

The ease of the extract must have lulled him into a false sense of security, because he was completely taken by surprise when he was moving through what appeared to be an office - there was a thud behind him and a voice called out cheerfully, “Hey, I found the Dynamic Duo!”

He spun and took two shots without getting a clear line of sight – both of which would have hit had the other man not ducked and rolled. The Soldier took cover behind an overturned table and dropped the mission from his back – this wasn’t one of the incompetent goons in bee-keeper suits; he was going to need both hands free for this.

“Barnes, you’d better have a good reason for taking potshots at me,” was that a bow and arrow in the enemy combatant’s hands? “You can’t still be sore about the knife throwing contest, right? That was like, three weeks ago!”

The Soldier didn’t answer. A quick glance showed that the tall metal cabinet was the archer’s shield of choice, his weapon drawn and aimed. The same part of him that knew all the ways the disc on the mission’s back could be used also knew that the man had deadly speed and even deadlier aim.

“C’mon, the mission’s over, we’re just doing clean up now,” bow-and-arrow was saying and he fought the urge to shake his head. The mission wasn’t over, the mission was still lying there, in the corner, waiting for extraction. “It’s great that you’ve got Cap, we were worried for a bit there when we heard the explosion, but it looks like everything’s under control, right? Let’s head back to the jet and get you two some medical attention, alright?”

There was a clatter of footfalls, and the archer swore even as a small contingent of other men — masked and in black Kevlar instead of the yellow suits — ran around the corner with weapons at the ready. “Dammit, Johnson! This is Hawkeye, call the team off!”

The Soldier took the distraction and rolled from cover, double-tapping the first three approaching combatants in their center mass, and taking another shot at Hawkeye, who was still yelling at everyone to “Stop and calm the fuck down!”

Unfortunately, his momentum took him from the desk to the spot where the archer had dropped in on them, and something hit him like an iron bar across his shoulders just as he came to his feet. He caught a glimpse of dark red hair before the woman swung her body with her legs still wrapped around his shoulders/neck, and he instinctively turned and tried to slam her off against the wall.

She held on stubbornly and he caught her wrist before one of her electrified gauntlets could catch him in the neck, but she reversed her grip and threw all of her weight to the side, toppling him over with a twist. They landed in an awkward heap with her mostly on top.

He rolled with the motion and parried no less than three swings for his jugular and one grab of his hair. He had her throat in his hands, but his grip loosed when she got a good shot at his diaphragm that left him gasping for air. She flexed with catlike grace and he found himself with her behind him in the beginning of a chokehold that he barely managed to insert a hand into.

It didn’t matter. She shouted, “Clint! NOW!”

He tried to dodge to the side, but he wasn’t fast enough. There was a stabbing sensation in his thigh, sharp and burning through the thick material of his pants. Black spots appeared in his vision almost immediately and weakness spread like wildfire through his limbs, much too fast for known tranquilizers and poisons, especially for him.

 _Sorry, pal,_ the last thought he had was of the mission as the world swam around him and went dark. _I guess this is the end of the line._

\--


	2. Chapter 2

There were distant voices in the gray haze that he floated in, by turns worried, upset, amused. Once, something warm and dry skimmed along the side of his face, light until the pressure increased slightly, enough for his fuzzy mind to realize it was a hand, brushing his hair behind his ear.

He must have twitched, because then someone said, “Shh, you’re okay, Buck.” And it was a herculean effort because his eyelids felt like they weight a metric ton, each, but he managed to blink open his eyes.

His tongue was also like a lead weight, but the match of face to name was instant this time, and he slurred out, “…Steve?”

Steve’s smile broke like the sun past clouds. “Yeah. Yeah, it’s me. You remember me now?”

He had to think about it, it was hard to focus. His head felt like it was floating and disconnected from the rest of him. “…mission,” he murmured. Steve was his mission. “AIM?” that seemed right, yellow beekeeper suits = Advanced Idea Mechanics, in the part of his brain that tracked relevant intel.

“Apparently, you hauled me out.”

“…you’re heavy,” he agreed. Steve’s laugh sounded very far away, and his eyes were closed again without his say-so. It faded, along with everything else, back in the gray.

\--

Steve was still there the next time he was awake, sitting in the uncomfortable hospital chair. He looked disproportionately happy about seeing him conscious. There was an empty cot, separated from Bucky’s bed by a nightstand. The positioning seemed odd, he wondered if there was another patient in here before.

Steve told him earnestly: “Clint’s sorry about the Hulk tranquilizer.”

That really explained everything, from why it took him down so hard and fast to why he still felt like a mile of bad road despite all of his knock-off super soldier enhancements. “No wonder the Hulk’s always angry,” he murmured back.

Steve adjusted the bed so he didn’t have to waste energy sitting up, and gave him water and the clipboard with his sundry list of ills to read while peppering him with questions on how he was feeling. “I’ll call the nurse,” he said, getting up, “and let them know you’re awake, for good this time.” Steve grinned. “Last time you fell asleep mid-conversation.”

Sometimes it was hard to think of anything outside of mission objectives, sometimes when the Soldier was first and foremost in his mind, he didn’t even really _like_ Steve. But occasionally – happening more and more often, he was alarmed to note - it was just so easy to smile back at Steve and reply, “If Barton’s really sorry, maybe I should ask him to try testing the tranq on you next time, and see how well you stay awake.”

Steve chuckled and went to summon the nurse. Bucky read through the clipboard for his afflictions – seriously, he thought all the hospitals would’ve upgraded to digital screens already, but at least it was easier to flip pages with his metal hand rather than swiping at a touchscreen.

The delivery was dated but the data was succinct and mostly legible: side-effects of being dosed with tranquilizers meant for something a lot stronger and bigger than him; badly sprained left ankle that should have been healed by now but wasn’t, most likely because he was putting Steve’s not inconsiderable weight on it on top of his own; the usual plethora of bruising and lacerations that came from being in an exploded room; moderately severe concussion that had already fixed itself. Not listed – the twinge at the join of flesh and metal of his left shoulder, the vaguely upsetting memory of _not_ remembering Steve.

The nurse came in within a few minutes and fussed over him in a more professional manner than Steve had, checking his IVs and the monitors, asking him if the air cast for his ankle was comfortable. “You’re healing nicely, Mr. Barnes.” She told him cheerfully. “The doctor will check in on you when she comes on shift, and you’ll be home in no time.”

“…ah, thanks.” He remembered to say. The nurse nodded and turned to Steve.

“Captain Rogers, there was someone outside to see you,” she said apologetically. “The same aide as before…? He was very insistent.” She looked a little hesitant. “I can have security remove him if you’d like, sir…I just didn't want to disturb the patients.”

Internal alarms started going off at the look on Steve’s face – Captain America’s public smile immediately made a reappearance but he could tell that it was fake. “Of course, Sandy,” it wasn’t surprising that Steve had already checked her nametag and known what to call her, “Sorry for the inconvenience, I’ll go take care of it right now. It’s probably nothing.”

Steve paused at the door, “Bucky, I’ll be right back.” He promised.

“Scram, punk,” Bucky told him, because he knew what Steve’s riled-by-a-bully face looked like, and there was no stopping him then. Steve was riled as hell right now and trying his hardest to hide it. Too bad Steve was an awful liar. Steve managed a weak smile for him before ducking out.

After Steve and the nurse both left, he shut off the monitoring machines before he disconnected the various tubes, clips, and IVs stuck to him. The army and then Hydra had basically removed every iota of body shyness from him, but he was still pleased that he was basically in scrubs instead of some of the backless gowns that he’d seen around. Flashing everyone his naked ass wouldn’t make for very good covert operations.

Before he absconded the room, he took the status clipboard hooked on the door, marked the next block down and flipped off the lights. Hopefully he would be long gone by the next time a nurse checked in on him.

\--

When Steve got riled, the only options were to wade in and either help or do damage control, or get out of the way. The Soldier would have voted for removing himself from the path of destruction – the asset had no pride and it didn’t injure any sense of self or worth to admit that the Captain was a formidable opponent. Bucky Barnes had made it habit of wading in for too long to count, and it was one of the damn things that stuck.

Still, he took the five minutes to raid the men’s locker room by the nurses’ station. Anyone looking for J. B. Barnes would be expecting a man in scrubs and barefoot with an air cast, not someone in a hooded jacket, jeans and boots.

He vaguely wondered what got Steve’s het up, because the other man was usually even-keeled unless something tripped his sense of fairness and justice. He hadn’t been around long and he kept out of the spotlight with extreme prejudice, but it was enough to see the parade of crap that the Avengers had to deal with on top of saving the world. Bucky guessed that some top brass was probably butt-hurt about the raid on the AIM base, because the armed forces and the law-enforcement usually liked to claim jurisdiction and Steve had no tolerance for alpha-male posturing when people were being hurt. He stepped on more toes that way than he did by actually dancing.

There was an occupied conference room at the end of the floor, by the elevators and emergency stairwell. He thought it was empty because the door was open and it was quiet, but a familiar voice disproved that theory.

Steve’s voice was arctic steel. “The answer is still no.”

An unfamiliar voice rose: “Captain Rogers – “

And at the same time, another familiar voice – Stark – cut in, “Nope, you don’t want to do that, brigadier general, _sir_.” The last word was positive dripping, gushing with distain. “Captain’s spoken, and the team’s behind him. Door’s right over there, don’t let it hit you on the way out.”

The Soldier paused, out of sight from the people in the room but in position to see into a part of it from the door, pretending to fiddle with his phone. The general in question was in full dress uniform, covered with medals and accolades. He cut an imposing figure with his iron gray hair and stubborn jaw, towering over the others because he was standing, braced over the conference table with a dark scowl. In contrast, the Avengers in attendance were in post-mission chic with clothes more appropriate for a day of lounging in the house than in a hospital. Banner was even in flip-flops.

The incongruous tableau didn’t make the combination of Steve’s cold tone and Stark’s implied _fuck you_ seemed any less foreboding.

“That man is a bloody terrorist and a stone-cold murderer,” the general replied venomously. “His kill list is longer than my arm, and that’s not counting the collateral damage, including women and children. He’s a threat to national security and a walking time bomb. And you want, what? To let him keep wandering free? Play the superhero game? Treat him like he was innocent of all wrongdoing? That’s not your call to make, _Captain_ , just because you happen to wear a flag. The country demands justice, and I won’t stop until we get it.”

Steve got to his feet in a deadly uncoil that the Soldier was more used to seeing from Natasha. Bucky was starting to realize that the general was talking about _him_ , but that fact seemed only vaguely interesting. More alarming was the realization that Steve had gone miles past mere anger and was currently firmly in the land of enraged. “You will take that back, right now.”

And that was the tone that Steve took while facing down bullies, gangsters, Nazis and Schimdt, right before he started swinging.

He could see the general’s face and the sneer was triumphant, as if he wasn’t about to get punched in the face. “Or what, _Captain America_? What credit do you have left, now that you’ve dismantled all of our tools to keep the country safe? What’s to stop us from taking _you_ in for your crimes against the country?”

The Soldier was unmoved but Bucky’s head was spinning. He could only see Steve from the back and his friend took the words without a flinch, but this was…this was _wrong_. Steve fought bullies and Bucky helped him. In no universe was Bucky ever the reason Steve _got_ bullied.

Before he could march into the room and rearrange the general’s face (which wouldn’t solve anything but would go a long way toward making him feel better), Stark cut in with his usual impeccable timing and desire to hear his own voice. “The Avengers,” he said snappily, shrugging at Steve. “Pretty sure you already bit more off than you can chew with Cap, but you come after him, I’m sure everyone else in the room - and a certain alien prince from Asgard - would take exception.”

Natasha folded her hands in front of her. Clint scratched the back of his neck. Somehow they managed to convey petrifying menace.

Bruce’s voice cut through the tension like a whip, mild but terrifying. “I think it’s best that you go, now. I’m starting to feel a little angry.”

Faced with five people who looked fit to kill, the general straightened with ill grace and an ugly look in his eyes that said this wasn’t over. “Is this really the hill you want to die on?” he asked Steve.

“Yes,” Steve answered immediately. “And the answer won’t change no matter how many times you, or anyone else, asks it.”

He had heard enough. Marching past the door – making sure that the general got a good glimpse of his face and he threw in a wave with his metal hand just to be sure – he casually opened the emergency exit doors and set off the fire alarm.

The general and his staff wouldn’t be stupid enough to chase him openly in the crowd that was starting to steam out into the hallway, toward the stairs. Once he hit street level, it would be short work to lose himself in the multitude.

No one bullied Steve on his watch, especially not _because_ of him. The Avengers have Steve’s back and will keep him from doing anything too stupid. The United States Army and any other takers can just try it.

The Winter Soldier was a ghost story…and it was time to disappear again.

\--

Once he was half a city away, he went to requisition supplies. He made sure that the security cameras had a clear view of his face when he did his shopping with one of the cards that Stark had on file under his name. Strolling out with his head down and the bag on his arm, he matched his pace and fiddled with his phone just like all the other shoppers. The various dummy payments he was scheduling should show a trail all the way up into Canada in the next two weeks, and while he didn't believe that the Avengers would fall for it (especially Natasha), he would bet the government suits would. 

Just to cement the illusion that he was making a grand escape out of the country, he went ahead and meandered around, making appearances at enough places with cameras to give anyone who's looking a trail to follow. He made sure he was seen on cameras at the transit bus station as well - Jarvis might have done the facial recognition and notified everyone in less than an hour, but he was sure no one else had Jarvis. Stark wouldn't need the AI to do the extra work - Bucky had been unconscious and at the Avengers' mercy often enough that he was almost positive that there was a tracker in his metal arm.

After that, it didn't take that long to set up his new burner phones. He bought a ticket to New Jersey from an actual attendant instead of the automated ticket machine, and stashed his Starkphone on the bus when they started letting people in thirty minutes before boarding. It was easy to duck into the bathroom and swap out the clothes he had liberated from the hospital with the new ones he bought at the store. He popped open one of the hidden panels in his arm and took out the nano-mesh SHIELD loved to use for disguises – one for his face and one for his too-conspicuous metal hand.

The man that stared out at him in the mirror was older, with narrower eyes, a few deeply lined wrinkles, and heavier brows. He tucked his hair under a beanie and left, tossing the old clothes in the first dumpster that he passed once he was out.

The Soldier bought a train ticket to Virginia. Some part of him – memory or just whim, thought ironically: _Go west, young man._

So he did.

\--

The government mooks were probably watching the Avengers' communications, insofar as Jarvis would let them. He would occasionally send texts, right before he wiped the phone he used and sent it out of country.

As he was driving through Indiana, he sent to Natasha: Check in my sock drawer, your 'sorry I tried to kill you multiple times' present is there.

To Barton, in Oklahoma City: I was not sore about the knife throwing contest, you won on a technicality.

To Steve, with the last of his burners, right before he left Tucson: I know I’m wasting air but don’t be an idiot. I’m not the hill you should die on.

I won’t let you.

**

Six months later found him in southern California; even though he was feeling more and more like the Soldier and Bucky Barnes were the same person, sometimes the night still haunted him with the cold. It was the tail end of winter, but the days were sunny and the breeze was gentle and mild.

It was still too cold for most native Californians at the beach, but he didn’t mind it. Compared to Russia, compared to the cryo chamber, the water was nothing worse than brisk and the sun beating down on his head was warm, through and through. There were a few others, closer to the parking lot – a bunch of college students with sun umbrellas and a huge cooler, a mother with two kids, but they were far off and the surf drowned out all other sound. It was peaceful.

He should’ve known better than to think that where the universe could hear him.

There were footsteps behind him – so far behind him that anyone without enhanced hearing probably wouldn’t have noticed. The scuffs on the sand and the occasional splash was barely noticeable over the sound of the waves, but he had spent the last half-year dodging various domestic and international intelligence agencies. Sure, it might be just another beachgoer taking his or her own walk along the waterline…or they might’ve finally given up on Canada and Europe and started looking closer to home.

(The FBI noticed Natasha taking a trip to Europe a few months ago and followed; he honestly wasn’t sure if she did it to mess with them or if she had really managed to track down the phone that he texted her with all the way to Edinburg. Either way, it was impressive.)

There was no real way to look back without letting his tail know that he was made. His hood was already up, but he wasn’t in any other disguise. The false face and the human hand that the nano-mesh generated had worked like magic, because anyone after the Winter Soldier knew that there was a metal arm involved. Take that away, he was just a man of average height and average coloring out of millions of people in the city. But it was uncomfortable to wear everywhere and now that he wasn’t just a mindless killing machine, he liked his little creature comforts.

A choice he was regretting now. Not that he thought he would have any trouble with the stalker – if they wanted him dead, they would’ve sniped him already – but he was trying the whole live-and-let-live thing, Hydra notwithstanding. If this tail was from Hydra, hopefully the fact that this stretch of the beach was not entirely deserted was enough of a deterrent until they reached somewhere with less potential witnesses.

It turned out to be not up to him after all. The footsteps sped up, and then broke into a light jog, whoever it was making no attempt to be quiet as they came up on him from behind. He kept his shoulders loose but fingered the knife in his pocket. Before he could decide whether or not to pull it, the footsteps stopped, thankfully at least five feet away from him.

A heart-stoppingly familiar voice called out, “hey.”

He would know that voice anywhere.

The smart thing would be to keep walking – let Steve think either he got the wrong person (unlikely) or let Steve know that he didn’t want to talk. Then again, his memory was still mostly Swiss cheese and he still knew that Steve wouldn’t let it go at that. His feet stopped without conscious input from his brain anyway, and he frowned down at them. Traitors.

“Hey,” Steve said again, sounding a little bit closer but still out of knife-range. Smart man. “Hey, I’m looking for this guy; he’s kind of a stupid, overprotective jerk. Have you seen him?”

He turned with a scowl and looked Steve over with the intensity of his glare set on ‘high’. The bastard was immune; in fact, Steve looked like he was torn between beaming and bursting into tears. “Oh, don’t try your puppy eyes on me,” he snapped. Steve tried to look contrite for a second before his expression flipped back to overjoyed. “What the hell are you doing here? I thought I gave everyone a pretty obvious ‘Fuck off’.”

Steve’s expression turned obstinate. “You had your bell rung hard enough that you forgot me during a mission, and disappeared from the hospital half an hour after you woke up without so much as a by-your-leave, with Hydra, the US Army, and who knows what else, wanting your head on a pike. Forgive me for thinking you might end up dead in a ditch somewhere.”

He tried to not feel guilty at the wretched look on Steve’s face. “You’re always so dramatic,” he muttered. “I was fine.”

“And then you send me that text.” Steve took a deep breath. “At the hospital. You overheard.”

Suddenly, he felt too tired to mock Steve’s failure at forming a complete sentence. “He wasn’t wrong, Steve.”

“He was wrong, and so are you.” Steve declared, jaw set. This was Steve Rogers, planting himself next to the river of Truth. “I will die on your hill as many times as it takes for you to see that it’s worth it.”

Bucky could feel a migraine coming up – it always did, when he had to argue with Steve. His track record was not so great, there. “It’s my hill,” he said, “and if I say you can’t die on it, you can’t.” He shook his head, “We’re not five, and it’s a moot point, Steve. General dickhead was right, whether you want to admit it or not. You can try to fix me, but you can’t fix what I did.”

“I’m not trying to,” Steve replied. “Only you can do that, and only if you want to. But you’re stupider than I thought if you think I’m not going to help. Until the end of the line, we promised.”

Bucky rather thought they’d reached the end of the line a long time ago, ran out of tracks and had gone on to crash and burn. But that would be an overly dramatic way of thinking about it, and Steve would disagree anyway. He would think they were still on schedule, homeward bound. “I…you’re so _stupid_.” He said, helplessly, and already knew that he was going to give in.

Steve closed until they were only a step apart. “Natasha really loved those ceramic knives, you know, and Clint complains about not having decent competition at the range anymore. Tony misses you.”

Bucky had to snort at that. “You mean, Stark misses my arm.”

Steve chuckled. “Yes, but he misses you because he says I’m intolerably mopey when you’re not around.” He shrugged, “I kind of bummed around in his workshop a lot, asking Jarvis to run facial recognition on most of the Eastern seaboard. Would you knife me if I try to hug you?”

“What is with you people and hugging?” Bucky asked rhetorically, but let Steve squeeze him with his tree-trunk arms. Steve replied by ducking his head lower and trying to burrow into Bucky’s sternum, the way he used to fit before the serum, before everything. “Hate to tell you this, pal, but you’re about two feet too tall for that now.”

It came out muffled because Steve was still pretending it was 1943. “Come home with me,” he said.

Even though he still didn’t remember everything, he did remember this: Steve would ask, and he would say yes. It would be no different this time. “Fine,” he said.

**End


End file.
